First Snow
by ScintillatingTart
Summary: The snow reflects them; refraction and reflection.


I don't own Downton Abbey, and most people are glad of it. This was written for day 24 of the Chelsie Chrstmas Special Countdown over on Tumblr.

First Snow  
by ScintillatingTart

The cold was as the edge of a knife; sharp, biting, a blade of stinging chill. Charles Carson walked back to the cottage from the village, drawing up the collar of his coat as he did. The tendrils of cold still snuck past his muffler and gloves and suffused him with a longing to be home and tucked away with a hot water bottle and his lovely wife.

He adjusted his hat slightly, wincing at the effort that it took; he was no longer a young man, and his bones had long since begun to ache with the weather. It took so much effort to get up in the morning, to make it through the day, to go to bed in the evening… He wondered where the young man with stars in his eyes and a jovial dance in his step had gone, when he had left, to be replaced by someone completely different.

He had lived by dreams once upon a time. An open-ended fantasy of a life on the stage, of fame and fortune, life lived outside the strict confines of society's shouting of virtues and vice. He had dreamed of a beautiful woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, of children with her sunny smile and his mother's eyes. He had dreamed, even after he had come back to Downton in shame, of Alice as his love; but in his waking dreams, his breathless fantasies, Alice had been replaced by a Scotswoman with sparkling eyes and a swift tongue.

Charlie didn't know when he had fallen in love with Elsie Hughes. Nay, that was a lie: he knew exactly when. He just didn't want to admit it, because to say such things – even to himself – was to hold his weakness up to the light. His brow furrowed, and he sighed.

The first snowflakes began to drift down from the sky, frozen droplets of delicate lace catching the dim rays of the last sunlight. He had stayed longer in the village than he'd meant to, but the train had been late with its deliveries from London – including Elsie's Christmas gift, which was clutched tightly against his body with one arm.

He had watched children frolicking in the chilled air, chasing one another in the street, squealing with delight at their antics. He had felt, keenly, an absence of his own children, of moments past that had come and gone without notice. There was only one woman he had wanted children with, truthfully, but his dreams of Alice had thwarted that. He had thwarted himself in more ways than one.

And he felt numbness, pain without cause, a moment of keen desire and longing that was overriding his better sense. He wanted with such need that his heart ached painfully. He pushed the feelings down into his belly, hoping that he might silence his angels and his demons for a moment. Just a moment.

He saw her swiping at the foggy, frost-edged window by the front door, grateful that his Elsie was waiting for him. The door flew open to greet him, and she scolded, "You daft man, what in blazes were you thinking, staying out in that cold?"

Charles smiled and reached up to brush snow off his shoulders as she reached up to snatch his hat. "I'm sorry – the train was late," he explained.

She helped him out of his greatcoat, his muffler, and his gloves. "Take your boots off," Elsie insisted gently. "Your poor feet must be freezing – I've got a kettle on, and we'll have supper soon. I hope mutton stew is all right."

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, and she was beautiful. To Charles, she was home. He had made the mistake of thinking when they were very first married that she might be the very fount of perfection, and had put her on a pedestal so high Elsie had no choice but to fall in his eyes. He did not realize until she had put him in his place a few times that she was not so much a goddess, but a lovely, sweet mortal woman with a temper and a sharp twinge of humor used so very effectively as a weapon. And now, he accepted her for everything she was, and everything she was not. He loved her fully.

"Stew is fine," he said softly. "Elsie, shall we have wine tonight?"

She half-smiled. "Are you certain you want to waste it on my mutton stew?" Elsie teased, rising on her toes and kissing his cheek. "Go change into warm clothes," she murmured. "You look half-frozen, Charles."

He captured her hand and held it, his fingers wrapping tightly around hers. "Elsie," he said softly, "have you ever wished you'd gone another way?" He remembered – vividly – the way she had asked him the same question so many years before, the way she had fretted and fidgeted, worried at how he would take the inquiry at all.

"No," Elsie said, her voice low and fluid. "If I had, I wouldn't have you. Now, go get your clothes changed, Mr. Carson, and no more of this maudlin behavior." He turned and she gently swatted him on the bum. "Get on w'ye."

He jumped, startled by her forwardness, a flush developing on his cheeks. "Mrs. Carson –"

"Aye, and don't forget it," she teased. "Go put on your new jumper, daft man, and get warm. I'll finish supper and we'll settle for the evening." She looked like she might start laughing, and he loved her even more just for the effortless way she managed him.

He gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead, then murmured, "I love you, Elsie."

"Go on, then," she scolded gently. "Upstairs w'ye."

He smiled and retreated, her gift tucked beneath his arm. "Yes, my dear," he said. "I shall be down in a few minutes."

Even a year before, he would have insisted on appearing at dinner in a full suit, but times – and people – changed. Now he was pleased to change into a jumper and join her at the table looking a bit of a rumpled old fool. But her rumpled old fool. That was what made all the difference. They had only been retired a few months; the first month had been nearly impossible, and she had mentioned 'divorce' at the top of her lungs more than once. But they had settled into a routine and they danced around one another with aplomb, careful not to trod on one another's toes.

He tucked away the twine-wrapped paper parcel that held several skeins of precious wool from a farm in Argyll in his drawer, and went to change into dry clothes. Fresh pants, a dry cotton shirt, and the new burgundy jumper that his wife had made him – one arm was slightly longer than the other, but it was part of its charm – donned, he headed back down the stairs with the exuberance of forgotten youth. He wrapped his arms around Elsie from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder. "It smells delicious," Charles said softly. "Wine?"

"I'd like that," she murmured, leaning back against him. "Why are you being so cuddly?"

"Because I missed you today," he whispered against her ear. "And it's cold out."

"I'm not complaining," she breathed, "but –"

"I missed you," he said, hoping against all hope that she would understand his meaning. Images of tangled limbs, breathy sighs, soft curses and whimpers coursed through his mind, and he inhaled sharply. "I've missed you," he mumbled.

"Cheeky devil," she laughed, stroking his arm around her waist. "It's time for dinner. Set the table, will ye?"

Dinner was a quiet affair, as meals usually were between them now. Retirement suited them both and a sense of peace settled around their shoulders like a cloak. He loved her, she loved him… it was good, then, wasn't it?

He waited until after the dishes were cleared away and washed before he glanced out the window. A soft blanket of snow had settled on the ground and the tree limbs, and he smiled with the delight of a child welling up in his heart. "Elsie, come look – the snow is lovely."

She came up behind him and peered out the window. "Och," she said, rolling her eyes and clucking her tongue. "I'm going to have to sweep the walk, then, aren't I?" Elsie muttered irritably. "It's only pretty until you have to move it."

Charles laughed. "Trust you to be pragmatically Scottish about it," he scolded gently.

"Trust you to be romantic about it," she shot back, nudging him in the side. "There's a mouse in the root cellar, by the way. It's quite enjoying the onions, much to my dismay. I had to cut away near half one of the onions for all the little mouse bites in it."

Charles wrinkled his nose. "I'll lay traps –"

"I'd rather we just get the cat we were talking about," Elsie said.

"You were talking about a cat," he pointed out. "I am against the idea –"

"Mouse bites all over your food," Elsie said pointedly.

"Maybe not so much against the idea," he said, shuddering a bit.

"Thank you," Elsie said. "Heaven only knows how we'll manage till then," she teased.

He huffed. "I'll go out tomorrow and find a kitten," he muttered.

She smirked and kissed his cheek. "I love you, Mr. Carson," Elsie murmured. "Now, I want to do a bit more knitting before we go up."

He didn't have the heart to tell her that no gentleman of good standing would want to wear a knitted scarf in colors like that, but she was so pleased with herself and her projects that he would never hurt her by criticizing her now. "All right," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I think I shall prepare the hot water bottle and start readying for bed."

He woke up when she climbed into bed with him. "Hello," she whispered. "Are you still awake?"

"Your cold feet have insured it," he mumbled, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight. "I love you, Elsie. Thank you."

"For what?" she murmured, yawning and cuddling up in his arms.

"The stew, the jumper, loving me," he exhaled, tucking his face into her shoulder. "Everything."

She clucked her tongue and purred softly, "You make it worth my while, Charlie."

He pulled the blankets up over them and closed his eyes again. "I'll go out in the morning and sweep the walk," Charles whispered. "Good night, love."

"Mmm, good night," she agreed.

Tangled limbs, warmth, safety and security: he had fantasized about a life with Alice, but in creating a life with Elsie, he had made a choice that created something far more important than just a life.

They had created love.

Fin


End file.
